44 Lexington
by rukushaka
Summary: /Blog of John H Watson: Bumped into Mike Stamford earlier today. Found a flat tonight. Shouldn't think I'll be seeing much of my flatmate - he's a detective with the Met, keeps all sorts of odd hours./ Instead of Sherlock Holmes, Mike Stamford introduces John Watson to recently divorced Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. Epic bromance, no slash.
1. Chapter 1

**The BBC owns Sherlock.**

**Prompted by, and filled for, TYRider.**

**Enjoy reading, and do let me know if you liked it - I, like many others, thrive on feedback.**

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><p><strong>Prompt: Instead of Sherlock Holmes, Mike Stamford introduces John Watson to recently divorced Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade.<strong>

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><p>"Couldn't Harry help?" Mike Stamford asked.<p>

John abruptly remembered one of the many reasons they had stuck together through med school: where John had been sharp-eyed and steady-handed, Mike had had a memory for detail that no-one else in the class could match. They hadn't seen each other in, oh, it must be over a decade now, and for the man to remember that John had a sister, and what her name was…

But either he'd forgotten she had a history of alcohol abuse, or - and this was more likely, it had been the cause of more than one heated debate between them as students - he was being the eternal dreamy-eyed optimist.

John snorted. "Yeah, like that's going to happen."

The Mike of his med school days would've sniffed and looked offended; this one just nodded and grinned a bit, as though he'd been expecting an answer of that sort, before tossing out another question, "I don't know - you could get a flatshare or something?"

Another snort. Yep, Mike was dreaming. He'd been home from the war for three weeks, three endless fleeting weeks, and he wasn't anywhere near ready to share living space with a civilian. If it wasn't the looks of pity and the long stares at his shuffling limp when they thought he wasn't looking, it was the bitter scowls and mutters of _serves you right for signing up… what are we paying taxes for, eh? So blighters like you can get sent home and not have to work another day in your life?_ Nights were the worst. Phantom strains of remembered adrenaline flooded his system and crashed against the terrible towering waves of gushing blood and survivor's guilt coming the other way; he would jolt awake, bite back the scream of rage and pain and sheer tangled _emotion_, and the mixture left his body the only way it knew how, trailing saltwater streaks down his cheeks.

He waved an arm, encapsulating his bung leg and the crutch leaning against the seat, "Come on, who'd want me for a flatmate?"

Mike's mouth twitched and stretched into another grin. He chuckled lowly.

"What?"

"You're the second person to say that to me today."

Knowing Mike's capacity for picking up the stragglers and loners of society, it was hardly surprising, and yet… well. His mate had that _look _on his face, the one he recognised from their school days. It called up memories of mischievous pranks gone spectacularly right.

And so he asked: "Who was the first?"

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><p>Mike strolled into New Scotland Yard looking, well, not as if he owned the place - that simply wasn't Mike's style - but as if he knew everyone there and, what's more, knew their mums as well. John swallowed his nervousness at calmly walking in the front doors of the Yard in search of a potential flatmate and hurried after Mike, who had nodded politely to the nearest uniform, made a brief enquiry of the nearest desk clerk, and was now heading for the lifts.<p>

Three minutes brought them to the ninth floor and the Homicide and Serious Crime Division.

"Left here," was Mike's only comment as they exited the lift. He'd said nothing about the person they had come to see, smiling enigmatically and staying stubbornly closed-mouthed in the face of John's questions.

John followed Mike down the hall, around a corner, and through one of a number of wide doors: this one was marked MIT IV. They wound their way between the open offices and desks, Mike calling cheerful greetings to the few officers present, and then he was knocking on the open door of a glassed-in office and walking on in without waiting for an invitation.

"Morning, Greg."

The man behind the desk was in his mid forties, with spiky silver hair that gave him the look of a teen rebel not quite grown into sober adulthood. Frowning ferociously at the computer in front of him, he paused his frenetic typing for long enough to hold up a finger at Mike's greeting and mutter, "…_pursuant to - _be with you in half a minute - _the ongoing investigation into the murder of Johannes Wicken, 37, of Finsbury…_"

He lapsed into silence, eyes darting down to the keyboard, over to the files spread across the desk, up to the screen again as he typed. John perched on the edge of one of the two visitor's chairs; Mike lowered himself heavily into the other, shooting John an infuriatingly cheerful grin as he did so.

John admitted himself confused. This man - what had Mike called him? Greg? - was presumably the potential flatmate Mike had been referring to, but what need would a Yarder have for a flatmate? The rookie uniforms might not get paid all that well, but this one was a plainclothes with the CID, and had his own office to boot; they were hardly the marks of a minimum wage earner.

The room held little more than the desk and chairs. A couple of filing cabinets were shoved up against one wall, a coat rack had been attached to the back of the door, and a printer was plugged in and left on the floor beside the power socket. Beyond that, a quick look around the office showed nothing more personal than a battered coffee mug emblazoned with the sunburst-and-crown of the Metropolitan Police - no photos of a wife or kids, no quirky artwork on the walls, not even the traditional manically cheerful 'You Don't Have To Be Mad To Work Here But It Helps!' poster. Before he could draw any conclusions from his observations, the man was hitting the full stop key with a heavy forefinger and a sigh - if John's short weeks of keeping an empty blog had taught him anything, it was what a finger pressing that final full stop sounded like - and turning to face them.

"Right, that's that done. Sorry, Mike. Hi, uh…" he saw John sitting beside Mike and trailed off questioningly.

"John Watson." John stood, leaning awkwardly on his cane, and held out a hand for the man to shake.

"Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade," accompanied by a firm handshake.

He was aware of dark eyes scanning him as he sat back down, noting the cane, the stiff leg, and the presence of Mike, who was after all a doctor, and coming to entirely the wrong conclusion, "Assaults can be reported downstairs - "

"No - no, it's nothing like that. I'm not hurt - I mean, it's not - "

Ever the voice of reason, Mike interrupted, "John was in Afghanistan until three weeks ago. He's looking for a place to stay."

"Flatshare," John added quickly, horrified that the detective would think he was asking for charity, "you know, go halves on the rent, type thing."

He fell silent, aware that he'd made a hash of things already and he'd barely even met his potential flatmate. There was a long moment of silence, during which the detective looked between Mike and John, Mike nodded encouragingly into the middle distance, and John stared, embarrassed, at the front corner of the desk.

"Right," the detective said finally, drawing the word out slightly. "Well. Uh. It's a bit unexpected, to tell you the truth - you could've given me a bit of warning, Mike - and this is hardly the place to discuss it, I'm meant to be working."

"How's that going, by the way?" Mike nodded to the open file on the desk.

"About as well as can be expected, given the autopsy results," was the guarded answer, with a subtle tilt of the head toward John - but not so subtle that John didn't catch it.

He could feel himself reddening slightly at the implication. Lestrade didn't want to talk about it in front of a relative stranger.

"Oh - " Mike's correction was almost too artless to be believed, "John's a doctor, too. He was with the RAMC."

Lestrade straightened slightly, but said, "Be that as it may, he's not the attending forensic pathologist. You are."

"Only because Molly's off on conference, Nick and Jacko are both sick, and I don't have any classes to take until next week."

The detective shrugged and turned to look at John, "Sorry, you understand how it is - ongoing investigation, we can't discuss it with unauthorised personnel."

"Yeah - yeah, absolutely," John agreed. No need to make this any more awkward than it already was.

Lestrade scrubbed a hand through his hair, "Uh, look, I really can't talk now, but d'you know The White Horse pub? It's in Soho, just up from Piccadilly Circus off the A401. Corner of Rupert and Archer."

"I know it." In fact he'd been kicked out of it as a second year med student.

"If you're serious about wanting a flatshare, if this - " he waved a hand around the featureless office, "hasn't scared you off - "

"It hasn't," John said quickly.

"Then I'll meet you there at eight and we can have a chat, how about that?"

Maybe he hadn't ruined his chances right off the bat after all. "Brilliant. I'll see you then."

They stood, said their goodbyes, and were on their way out in under a minute as Lestrade turned back to his computer.

"So?" Mike prompted once they were on the street.

"So what?"

"What did you think?"

John made a noncommittal noise, "Don't know yet. Wait and see how tonight goes. How do you know him?"

"Like he said, I'm attending forensic pathologist for this case."

"Doesn't sound like you're a regular for it, though."

Mike shrugged, "I step in every few months when someone's out sick or when they're busy enough to need more than one person. I don't love it, but I do what I can to help."

"How'd you get into it?"

"Molly Hooper introduced me a couple of years back. She's their regular, but they needed more than just her - so now there's Molly, Nick, Jacko, and me. Molly's a sweet young thing: innocent as anything to look at, but she loves the job and she knows her stuff. Jacko's a bit older and a bit tougher, he and Greg give as good as they get when they're working together. Nick's only just out of school, and it shows; he's usually posted under the supervision of one of us."

John nodded, mulling this over. "And the Detective Inspector? What's he like?"

"Greg works hard - too hard, some would say. Long hours. It's a stressful job. He's…" Mike hesitated, "he's going through some stuff at the moment, but he can tell you about that himself, when or if he chooses. He's got a good sense of humour. Snarky. You'll like him."

They parted ways on Victoria Street, Mike flagging a taxi to head back to Bart's and John making for the tube station, but not before Mike had wrangled John's mobile number off him and made him promise to call the next day and let him know how the meeting went.

"And if I don't hear from you by dinner time I'll be calling you," he called as he turned away, raising an arm for an approaching cab, "so you may as well spare me the trouble."

John managed a brief half-smile by way of response. He watched the cab pull out into traffic and disappear, leaving him once more alone in the midst of the London crowd, and his smile disappeared too, fading into the old pain-worn lines it had come to know so well these last few weeks.

He bit back a sigh and turned toward the tube station. His meeting with Lestrade was over three hours away; that was more than enough time to head back to the bedsit and grab a bite to eat before heading for Soho. Maybe he'd update his blog before he went - or wait until he got back, when he'd have something to say. That was a better idea.

_Bumped into Mike Stamford earlier today. Found a flat tonight. Shouldn't think I'll be seeing much of my flatmate - he's a detective with the Met, keeps all sorts of odd hours._

He snorted. What an exciting life he had.

Leaning on his cane and limping, tap-step, tap-step, John vanished into the bowels of the Underground.


	2. Chapter 2

**The BBC owns Sherlock.**

**Prompted by, and filled for, TYRider.**

**A big thank you to my lovely reviewers - you know who you are.**

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><p><strong>Prompt: Instead of Sherlock Holmes, Mike Stamford introduces John Watson to recently divorced Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade.<strong>

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><p>He was late.<p>

Checking his watch for the third time in five minutes, John quickened his steps and slipped through the doors of the pub just as the minute hand ticked over to eight ten. A quick sweep of the room showed that a) the place had changed little since his student days, b) it was just as brown as he remembered, and c) there was no sign of Lestrade.

Okay then.

Tamping down on the sudden surge of nervousness, he made his way through the sparse crowd to the bar and ordered a house lager. Surely the detective wouldn't have taken off already? He was only ten minutes late; most people would hang around for at least twenty minutes before deciding their meeting wasn't happening.

Then again, it was possible that Lestrade had been held up at work and was late himself.

Yeah. That would be right.

John breathed a mental sigh of relief, took his glass from the barman with a nod of thanks, and turned back to the room. He cast another casual glance around the room in case he'd missed Lestrade coming in, and something in the back corner caught his eye…

It was a staircase. That was new; the White Horse had been a decidedly one-storey establishment the last time he'd been here. Glass in hand, he wound through the tables and climbed the bare steps, emerging into an upper room cluttered with sagging couches and coffee tables.

There was a lone drinker in the corner, situated at a high bench where he could watch the street below through the wide window and still have a clear view of the room and the staircase. The figure looked up as John entered and lifted a hand in greeting, and John saw that it was Lestrade.

"Sorry I'm late," John said in greeting, juggling his cane and drink as he slid onto the high stool, "time got away from me a bit."

Lestrade brushed off the apology with a shake of his head, "Don't worry about it, Doctor Watson - "

"John, please."

"John. I've only just got here myself, really."

It was either the truth or a polite deflection, but John wasn't about to call him on it. "Long day at work?"

"Same as usual," the words were accompanied by a wry tip of the head. "Started at eight this morning and knocked off two hours ago to go the gym. Sixty hours or more is my standard work week; I'm usually only at the flat to sleep and raid the fridge, so if you were looking for a flatmate who finishes at five and watches telly in the evenings, I'm probably not your guy."

John sipped his lager and grinned, "I sort of assumed you wouldn't be that type. It doesn't worry me."

The detective looked an enquiry.

"I was a doctor with the army for the last ten years; I know exactly what it's like to fall into my bunk at three in the morning and be up and on the go at six. If cops are anything like doctors - and from the sounds of it they are, if a twelve-hour day is your standard - then it won't be much different from my med school days, except we'll both have a bit more money. I never saw my flatmates then, either."

They sat in silence for a bit. John used the time to covertly assess his potential flatmate, aware that the man was more than likely doing the same to him.

From the wrinkled shirt and lack of tie to the desk covered in files, three hours ago Lestrade had practically screamed 'stressed policeman'. Now, in dark jeans and a blue Henley, black leather jacket hanging over the back of his stool, he had a look that John recognised as 'off duty cop', in the same way that his squad in Afghanistan would be 'off duty soldiers and medic' on their days posted back to base. There was a trick to it: being relaxed and alert at the same time, enjoying yourself while being fully aware that you could be called to action at any time. There were some jobs that went longer than nine-to-five, longer even than eight-to-eight, and doctoring and policing were two of them.

There were always injuries to tend and crime to solve. A doctor was a doctor, off duty or no, and policemen were the same.

He sipped his lager and did his best to ignore Lestrade's scrutiny, then nearly choked when the detective said suddenly, "Tell me about yourself."

He put his glass down, "Sorry?"

"Mike's a good man, but I can't just invite you to flat with me on his word alone. Tell me about yourself," he repeated.

"Um," what was there to say that wouldn't make the man go running? "Well. I went to med school at Bart's with Mike, went through basic training, and then did ten years as an army doctor with the RAMC - six years in various postings all around the world and then four in Afghanistan. Came back to London three weeks ago, but I can't afford a place myself on what the army pays me, and I'd rather not stay in quarters any longer than I have to."

The bedsit would drive him insane if he stayed there another week. He swallowed and continued, "I'm tidy but not compulsively so, a decent cook when it comes to pasta and risotto and the like, and I'm more than capable of cooking and cleaning for myself. I'm a people person, very sociable, but if it's on my territory then I prefer small gatherings to large crowds. I watch Firefly reruns whenever they're on television and read the occasional trashy crime thriller."

_I suffer from nightmares three nights in four, _he didn't say. _I woke screaming at exactly seven minutes past two on the fourteenth of this month. At seven minutes past two on the fourteenth of the month before this, a bullet was entering my left shoulder through the pectoralis major and exiting through the upper latissimus dorsi. I clean when I'm stressed, and I learned to clean in the army - you've never seen such a clean toilet in your life. I do an army training regimen every morning, or as much of it as I deem myself fit to handle. It wasn't much three weeks ago, but I'm improving. My hand still shakes and my leg's half lame for no apparent reason, but I'm improving._

Lestrade, having not heard his internal monologue, was nodding, "That sounds in line with what I had in mind for a flatmate."

John bit back a cynical grin.

"You don't have a criminal record?" Lestrade continued. "As a doctor and a soldier I'd assume you don't, but I'm a cop, we have to ask these questions."

"I don't have a criminal record," John confirmed, "and I've not had any driving offences. I don't do drugs - I've never done drugs; ah, I'm not a heavy drinker, I don't smoke, I'm not currently sexually active…"

Realising what he'd said, he broke off, embarrassed, as the detective laughed.

"Sorry," he muttered, "automatic pilot for a second there."

"Don't mind me, mate," Lestrade waved a hand to dismiss it, grinning broadly. "It's good to know these things about a potential flatmate."

"What about you?" John asked, seizing the opportunity to change the subject. "I've told you enough about me, it's your turn now. Cough up."

He wasn't about to mention that he'd googled the detective. Sitting at his dining-table-cum-kitchen-counter-cum-work-desk earlier that evening with a bowl of lukewarm microwave pasta at his elbow and mug of tepid instant coffee in his hand, he'd spent an informative forty minutes trawling through various online news articles and the Met's own website, gleaning a snippet from a few years back here and a paragraph from last week there in order to build up a mental picture of Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade which, in the end, didn't tell him a great deal more than what he'd already observed in the man's office that afternoon. But, he supposed, every little bit helped.

Of course, direct observation and interaction would help more.

Lestrade swigged his beer and said, "Me? Not much to tell. Been a cop for the last twenty-odd years and worked for the CID for twelve of that. Got promoted to Detective Inspector six weeks ago, hence the bare look of my office - I've only just moved in, really, haven't had a chance to get everything sorted yet. I got the flat when I got the promotion: I lived further out from the office before, and more responsibility means more hours and exponentially more paperwork, so I really needed to move to somewhere closer to the Yard."

Watching the way he rubbed his hands together almost nervously where they sat on the tabletop, John couldn't help wondering if there was more to that story.

"As for what I'm like to live with," Lestrade went on, "I'm an utter slob, I won't even try and deny it, but I do my best to keep the mess confined to my bedroom as much as possible. I'm an alright cook, I clean when I get time - which hasn't been often lately - and I guard my territory very carefully, it's a side effect of the job. Bolt the door and double-check the alarms before bed, be cautious about who I let into the flat in the first place, that sort of thing. I'm not much of a people person, but I like the odd pub night or social meet-up with friends; I abhor police dramas and I fall asleep in front of the telly more often than I actually get through an episode of anything; I love leisure reading, but the only reading I have much time for is police procedurals or brushing up on my criminal law."

He didn't sound as if he'd be a terrible flatmate, but then he could be not-saying just as much as John had not-said. Idly, at the back of his mind, John wondered what sort of nightmares a detective with twenty years' on the force would have… and then decided he really didn't want to know. There was no point in playing 'mine are worse than yours', with nightmares or anything else, not even theoretically. When it came to trauma, all experience was legitimate; a civilian rape was no less a traumatic experience than three tours of the Middle East would be, and treating it as a lesser issue, either as the person treating the issue or the person being treated, was not an option.

Swapping stories about John's ten years' military service and Lestrade's twenty years in the police force could wait until they knew each other better and were more comfortable in each other's company, until he knew the signs and tells that would let him know when he could keep pushing an issue and when he should back off.

Just when he had decided he would be fine flatting with Lestrade, he wasn't sure; and he couldn't even pinpoint _why. _Perhaps it had been when he'd seen the barely used office and realised that the man was as much a foot soldier as John himself was; perhaps when his automatic no-drugs-smoking-etc spiel had garnered a genuine laugh instead of raised eyebrows or a slantways look; perhaps when his mental _no civilians _barrier had let Lestrade through without a murmur, even before the words _I guard my territory very carefully_.

Coppers weren't civilians, any more than soldiers were.

The detective cleared his throat softly before draining his glass. "You're very quiet. Did I scare you off?"

John shook himself. "No! No. Quite the opposite, in fact. I, ah, I was just thinking that it sounds perfect - the perfect situation, really. If you think you might want me for a flatmate, that is."

"Yeah," Lestrade said with understated cheerfulness, "I think I might."

"Fantastic."

His relief must have shown a bit too much in his voice, because Lestrade's lips twitched.

"What's the flat like?" John asked.

"Well, it's close - just around the corner and down the road a bit. Forty-four Lexington Street. The flat's on the third floor. Living room, kitchen, and bathroom on the main level, spiral staircase up from the living room - it's not horrifically narrow, you should manage alright," with a brusque nod toward John's leg and the cane leaning against his stool - "and two bedrooms upstairs in the loft."

"How much is the rent?"

"Twenty-two hundred a month, so five hundred and fifty a week. Two seventy five each."

"That's a decent price." He'd been expecting a minimum of three hundred a week, and probably something closer to three-fifty for a two-bed flat in the middle of Soho.

"It's not a huge space, and not having a bathroom upstairs would put some people off," Lestrade shrugged. "Add to that the lack of parking space and the fact that the bedrooms are a bit tight, and there you have it."

John grinned and shook his head, "Doesn't worry me. I mean, I'd like to see the flat before I decide for sure, but I don't think any of that will be a problem."

"Great - "

"_Floop is a madman, help us, save us. Floop is a madman, help us, save us._"

Lestrade grimaced and patted his pocket, "Sorry, that's my phone. The squad gets hold of it sometimes and changes the text alert…"

The look of apology melted into confusion as he pulled his mobile out and read the text message, "_If brother has green ladder, arrest brother. _What on earth? Sherlock…"

"Problem?" John asked. Sherlock was presumably the name of the sender, but from Lestrade's tone it could just as easily be a substitute for another, rather shorter word that also started s-h.

"You could say that. It's from one of our consultants, but he always seems to forget that we have a dozen cases going at once… _Which case are you talking about?" _he muttered as he tapped the message into his phone, "_Whose brother and on what grounds?_"

He picked up his glass as if to knock back the last dregs before realising that he'd already finished his drink. Putting it back down, he slid off his stool and reached for his jacket, "Sorry, I'm going to have to go. I assume he's talking about an active case, and the sooner we can close it, the better. Look, I was going to say - if you want to come and have a nosey around the flat, I'll try and knock off work by six tomorrow, so I should be home by six thirty if you want to show up then? Or if that doesn't work for you - "

"That's fine," John broke in, "six thirty is fine."

"Great. If you need to contact me," the detective was sliding a card out of his wallet as he spoke, "here's my work number: text that and tell me who you are so I've got your details, in case there's a change of plans tomorrow and I need to let you know or anything."

John took the card and nodded, "I'll do that, thanks."

"I'll see you tomorrow," Lestrade was striding for the stairs, shrugging into his leather jacket as he went, and then he was gone.

John lifted his glass, looked at it thoughtfully for a long moment, and drained the last inch of lager. Tomorrow would be an interesting day.


	3. Chapter 3

**The BBC owns Sherlock. **

**Prompted by and filled for TYRider.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

><p><strong>Prompt: Instead of Sherlock Holmes, Mike Stamford introduces John Watson to recently divorced Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade.<strong>

* * *

><p>Lestrade texted at five o'clock.<p>

_+Sorry, tied up at work and will be for a while yet. Can we make it eight o'clock? GL+_

John raised an eyebrow at the initials. The detective had seemed fairly technologically capable, certainly more-so than John himself. He would have thought that Lestrade knew all about saving new contacts to your phone and filling in their details, taking a picture of them and what-not. Nobody signed their texts anymore; all it took was a glance at the contact name to see who was texting or calling you.

He tapped out a quick reply.

_+No problem. See you at eight.+_

His phone beeped two seconds later.

_+You are John Watson, yeah? GL+_

_+I am John Watson, yes.+_

The reply took a bit longer this time.

_+Good. Just checking. Identity theft is far too easy these days. Anyone can steal a phone and carry on conversations with the owner's friends with them being none the wiser. GL+_

Ah. So that was the reason behind the initials - Lestrade was confirming that he was the one sending the texts. But surely it would be a simple system to abuse? John grinned.

_+Anyone can sign the owner's initials, too. Case in point: GL+_

Two minutes passed, and then five, by which time his nerves were getting the better of him and he was wondering if he'd overstepped a boundary. He knew he was joking, but people could read all sorts of tones into a simple text message. Maybe Lestrade had taken it the wrong way?

A buzz from his phone had him hitting the button to activate the screen.

_Battery low. Your phone will power down in 30 minutes. Please charge your phone._

He grunted, fished around in his desk drawer for the charger, and plugged his phone in before propping his chin on his hands and staring at it. It stubbornly refused to signal an incoming text. Was Lestrade ignoring him? Had he offended the man? Probably Lestrade was just busy, but it felt like he was deliberately being ignored. He just hoped he hadn't blown his chances of the flatshare.

Another three minutes passed before the reply came.

_+Oh, it's far from foolproof, I admit that freely. It's a simple enough trick for those in the know, though. See you at eight. GL+_

He sighed, torn between relief that Lestrade wasn't annoyed and amusement at his own overreaction. It wouldn't hurt to sign his texts, he supposed. It was an extra layer of security, however light and flimsy it might be.

_+See you at eight. JW+_

Eight o'clock found him limping up Lexington Street, tap-step, tap-step with his cane. He'd looked up number forty-four on Google Streetview so he wouldn't look like an idiot shuffling down the road and peering at every door he passed. It was a dark red door with black iron numbers; John was abut to knock when an unmarked police car came roaring down the street, lights flashing, pulled a U-turn, and slid neatly into an empty ten-minute park on the other side of the road.

The door of the Jaguar opened and Lestrade hopped out.

"Evening, John," he called, locking the car behind him and striding across the street.

"Inspector. Good evening."

"Call me Greg."

"Greg, then," John said. "Busy day?"

Greg flashed a grin, looking for an instant every inch the teen rebel John had suspected him of being in his younger years. "Busy day, and it's about to get busier. The night's not over yet."

The front door swung open. Greg waved him through and up the polished wood staircase to the first floor landing.

"If you've got a time sensitive case on, I could have come to look at the flat another night," John said, and then fought not to groan. It had been a daft thing to say. His new flatmate worked for Scotland Yard in the Homicide department; they were _all _time sensitives cases.

But Lestrade didn't comment on his faux pas.

"Nah," Greg said, unlocking the door to the flat itself. "I'd already put you off once; a right heel I'd have looked putting you off again. We'd finished the initial examination of the crime scene, and then my consultant took off without a word - either he had an epiphany about the case or he remembered he'd left the stove on at his flat. I left Forensics winding up the scene and ducked home. Told them I had an urgent appointment and I'd be back in an hour."

John stepped into the flat, taking it in in one swift glance. It was nice; small, yes, but cosy. The main room was a narrow rectangle: bathroom and open kitchen to the left, living area to the right. The bathroom was all white and chrome from what he could see through the half-open door. The kitchen was done in shades of red and charcoal, and the same red and charcoal spread through into the lounge, reflected in the stripes of the rolled-arm couch and the coasters on the low coffee table. No carpet; there were polished wood boards underfoot, the same as the staircase outside. Windows looked out from the kitchen and the end wall of the living area.

"I like it," he said promptly, aware of Greg's eyes on him.

"Yeah?" Greg said.

"Yeah," he said. "It's small but not cramped, you've got good visibility on two fronts, it's modern without being horribly overdone or terrifyingly minimalist, and…" he walked through into the kitchen, confirming his first glance, "you have your own espresso machine. I love it."

The beast stood at the end of the counter over a tucked-in bar stool. Gleaming red plates met silver nozzles and pressure gauges in a whirl of caffeinating gloriousness. It was clearly well cared-for; bread crumbs and dirty plates sat beside the sink at the end of the small kitchen, but the coffee machine was clean and shining as if it had only just been purchased. Three mugs, one black, one red, and one blue with the sunburst-and-crown of the Met, were stacked on top of it, and the faded pictures on the buttons spoke of recent and frequent use.

"You're a coffee man, then?" Greg asked.

"I am," said John. "Lived on instant in my uni days, and then a man in my squad in Afghanistan had his own solar-powered filter kit, and he wasn't shy about sharing it with all and sundry. Espresso came few and far between - a luxury even among luxuries."

Greg nodded. "Glad to hear it. I run on the stuff, myself. Have done ever since I stopped smoking." He looked like he was about to say more, but then stopped himself.

John could read the look of the recovering addict well. He'd seen it thousands of times over the years: tobacco, alcohol, drugs, porn, whatever the habit, it all looked the same around the eyes of an abstaining addict. _I've wanted to light up, _Greg had almost said. _I've really really wanted to, and some days I don't know how I stop myself. But I haven't given in yet, even if I've had good reason and more than good reason._

It was a stressful job, Mike had said, and: he's going through some stuff at the moment.

Personal stuff, John assumed. Stuff related to getting a promotion and moving into a new flat. Stuff that could almost drive a man to pick up an old habit like smoking.

He didn't ask. Greg could tell him in his own time, when or if he chose.

"Mind if I take a look upstairs?" he asked.

"Go for it," said Greg, eyes flicking between John and his phone as he tapped out a text. "You're welcome."

The spiral staircase was less awkward to navigate than he'd feared. The landing at the top was narrow, and the two doors at the top were shut fast.

"I'm in the bedroom on the left," Greg said from behind him. "It's the bigger of the two; take a look if you want, but be warned: it's a bit of a mess."

'A bit of a mess' was a bit of an understatement. Clothes and books were strewn everywhere; a laptop sat open and asleep on the foot of the bed, and shoes lay in jumbled pairs along the foot of the wardrobe. John glanced around the room, taking in the light grey walls, blue duvet on the double bed, and the low ceiling, and then closed the door. The other bedroom was smaller, but not by too much. It would fit a double bed without too much trouble. It had been painted the same shade of grey, and was empty apart from a few boxes.

"Obviously I'll move the boxes out," said Greg. "They're just bits and pieces I haven't gotten around to unpacking yet. I know the room's a bit small."

"It's not a bad size," said John. "Certainly better than where I am now."

Greg looked sideways at him. "Army quarters not so great?"

"Tiny."

A double beep floated up from the living room. Greg vanished. The stairs were more difficult to manage coming down than going up, but no doubt they would get easier with practice; by the time John had negotiated them, Greg was pacing from the kitchen to the couch and back, talking to someone on the phone.

"Yes … You're all finished up there, then? … Alright … What, he's not back yet? … No, I didn't think so … No, don't worry about that. I've got an idea of what he's up to. Meet me at Baker Street … Yeah, be quick, but no lights or sirens. Don't want to scare the neighbours … Right. See you soon. Sorry, John," he added, dropping his mobile on the arm of the couch and turning toward the bathroom, "I've got to go."

The bathroom door closed. Greg's phone had slid across the arm of the couch and fallen down onto the seat; John fished it out of the gap between arm and cushion and wandered across to the low bookcase for a look. There were more than a few criminal law books… a couple of Tom Clancy's… _Demon: A Memoir _by someone called Tosca Lee… _The Testament _by John Grisham…

The loo flushed and Greg emerged from the bathroom. "Hate to rush you off like this," he said, slipping through into the kitchen and plucking an apricot from the fruit bowl. "But the team's finished earlier than I expected." He took a bite, crossed the living room, and opened the door. "After you."

They were leaving right this minute? John stepped out onto the landing, feeling a little rushed but trying not to show it. "Yeah, no, that's fine. I understand."

"Listen, if you're still interested in the flat - "

"I am."

Greg chewed, swallowed, and started down the stairs beside him. "I'll give you a call tomorrow sometime and we can have a chat about the details. How does that sound?"

"Fantastic." He'd found a good flat with a good flatmate, and all going well he could be out of the bedsit in a week or two. It was brilliant. "That sounds fantastic."

"Great."

They reached the street door; again, Greg let him go first before stepping out and locking it behind them.

"I'll talk to you tomorrow, then," Greg said, and strode across the road to his car.

The Jaguar roared to life and peeled away down the street. John lifted a hand in farewell as it vanished around the corner - and then swore.

Greg's mobile was still in his hand.

Blast and sod and sod and blast. He should have given it to Greg as soon as he had finished in the bathroom, but in the rush it had slipped his mind. And Greg would need it, he was sure of it. Who could go anywhere these days without needing to call or text someone?

He whipped out his phone and opened a new text.

_+I've got your mob - +_

And stopped. There was no point sending a message from the phone in his left hand to the phone in his right hand. He'd have to take to Greg himself.

Where had Greg said he was going? Baker Street? He could take the Bakerloo line of the Underground, but he didn't know when the next train was, and there was no telling how long Greg would be there - he might only be stopping in for five minutes. He would have to take a cab.

John patted his pocket, felt his increasingly thin wallet, and grimaced. Well, it was his own silly fault. If he'd just left the phone on the arm of the couch, this wouldn't have happened.

He made it a minute down Lexington Street before spotting a passing taxi and hailing it.

"Baker Street, please," he said. "And quickly."


	4. Chapter 4

**The BBC owns Sherlock, not I.**

**Prompted by and filled for TYRider.**

**A bit of a shorter chapter this time. Hope you enjoy:)**

* * *

><p><strong>Prompt: Instead of Sherlock Holmes, Mike Stamford introduces John Watson to recently divorced Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade.<strong>

* * *

><p>The cab turned onto Baker Street and slowed to a crawl.<p>

"Where do you want to be dropped, mate?" the cabbie asked.

John looked up and down the street, hoping to catch a glimpse of Greg's car. Traffic was sparse enough for this early in the night. Of the few cars parked along the curb, not one was a silver BMW.

"Keep going," he said. "Slowly. I'll tell you when."

Halfway up the block, he spotted the Beamer parked on the left. "Here! Drop me here. Thanks."

The taxi pulled over to the curb and stopped. He paid the fare, hiding a grimace behind another murmur of thanks, and tumbled out onto the footpath.

The BMW was parked outside a cafe that proudly advertised itself as _Speedy's Sandwich Bar and Cafe. _John glanced inside. The interior was dark, chairs were stacked on tables and the sign on the door was flipped to _Closed. _He didn't think Greg was in there - although, John supposed, he could be out the back.

John swallowed, looking up the street and back down it. No sign of Greg apart from his car. He could be in any of these buildings. How on earth was John supposed to find him?

His pocket rang.

He pulled out Greg's phone and glared at it. He couldn't answer the man's phone. It was bad enough that he'd accidentally stolen it in the first place. The mobile kept ringing, flashing a number followed by a name: _Sally Donovan, _whoever she was. The sound grew louder. He stuffed the phone back into his pocket, hoping to muffle the noise. No such luck. A woman hurried past him, keeping her distance and looking at him sideways. He must look like an idiot, he thought, standing in the middle of the footpath ignoring the phone ringing very loudly in his pocket.

He pulled the phone out again and glared at it until it - _finally!_ - stopped ringing. Good. Now if it would just stay silent…

It rang again. The screen lit up, showing the same name and number. _Sally Donovan_. John sighed and hit _Accept Call._

"Hello?" he said.

"Hello," an amused and most definitely female voice said. "Is that Doctor Watson?"

He blinked. How did she know his name? "Er. Yes. It is, yes. I mean, I am. Who is this?"

"Sergeant Sally Donovan. Where are you?"

"Why are you asking?" he returned. She might claim to be a police officer, but he wasn't about to give his location to a strange voice on the other end of the phone.

"Greg would quite like his phone back, if it's all the same to you."

Oh. She was with Greg. Right. "Can I speak to him?"

"Sure." There were muffled noises, and her voice grew distant. "Boss, he wants to talk to you." And then she was back. "I'll hand you over."

"John," said Greg.

"Greg," said John, tamping down on the rush of relief he felt. "It's you. Good."

"Were you expecting someone else?"

"You never know," John said. "Stranger on the phone claiming to be a police officer. Could've been anyone."

He could hear the grin in Greg's voice. "Well, if you're satisfied that I am who I say I am - "

"I am."

"Then would you mind getting my phone back to me?"

"Yes. Sorry. It fell off the couch when you threw it, and I had meant to give it back to you, but we left in such a rush - "

"John. Don't worry. It's fine."

"Right," he said. "Good. I - yeah. Good. Um. Where are you?"

"Baker Street. Where are you?"

"Baker Street."

Greg barked a laugh. "You're kidding!"

"I heard you on the phone back at your flat, saying where you were heading off to," John said, "so I caught a cab. I'm loitering at your car at the moment, and I've been getting some strange looks, so if you could maybe come and meet me here…"

"I'll be down in a second," Greg said. Wind whistled through the earpiece, and John heard him talking to someone else. "_What do you know, he's waiting at my car now. I'll just pop down and - _"

The line went dead. It was barely a minute later when the door beside Speedy's opened and Greg's head emerged.

"John!" he called, waving a hand.

John jogged across the footpath and brandished the mobile at Greg. "Here. Take it before I forget to give you again. I am so sorry - "

Greg cut him off. "I told you, don't worry about it. These things happen. And if nothing else, you've at least proven yourself trustworthy."

He hadn't thought about that. "There is that, I suppose."

Greg took the phone and slipped it into a pocket. Dark eyes looked him over for a second. "You may as well come up."

"I - what?"

"Come on up. You can meet my team. And Sherlock."

There was more than a hint of devilish glee in those last words, John was sure. "Uh, I'm really not sure…"

"If you're serious about flatting with me, you'll have to meet them at some point, and there's no time like the present, is there?"

John blew out a breath and conceded defeat. "No, I suppose not."

Greg stepped back, leaving room for him to squeeze past into the entrance hall. "Well? Hurry up, you're letting the heat out."

He moved past Greg to the foot of the the staircase. It was only marginally warmer here than it had been outside.

Greg shut and locked the outside door before waving him on up the stairs. "After you. It's the door straight ahead of you at the first proper landing."

John had a distinct feeling that there was a lot he wasn't being told. He didn't move. "This isn't a set up, is it?"

"A set up? For what?" Greg asked. "No. Why would it be?"

"I don't know. Just feels like there's something you're not telling me." He held Greg's gaze, trying to read him, but the older man just shrugged and quirked a grin.

"I'm anticipating your meeting Sherlock, if you must know," said Greg. "He's a bit of a character, that one."

An impatient shout echoed down the stairs. "If you're quite done nattering on like a pair of old women, Lestrade, you might bring this doctor of yours up so that I can meet him!"

John lifted an eyebrow.

Greg nodded. "That's him."

"Lovely," John said, not with irony. He hefted his cane, chewed his lip for a moment, and started up the stairs.

He'd looked Sherlock up, of course. Anything to help him in his quest for information about Greg. It had taken him a couple of tries to get the spelling right, but with a name like that, he hadn't even needed a surname to get several dozen hits on Google. The man sounded simultaneously fascinating and a right twat.

Comments on his website ranged from the adoring:

_Thank you so much for finding my mother's heirloom ring, Mr Holmes. If there's ever anything we can do to help you, please let us know -_

to the matter-of-fact:

_Your services in the matter of the missing million-dollar valuables belonging to the Indian Prince were much appreciated, Mr Holmes - _

to the barely civil:

_We are not ungrateful for your help in Regent Street this morning. _

And speaking of his website… _The Science Of Deduction? _Who did he think he was, Hercule Poirot? How much more pretentious could you get? Not to mention the fact that it was technically inaccurate: Holmes seemed to be using _in_duction, not _de_duction. It didn't exactly inspire confidence in the man's abilities.

He'd be lying if he said he wasn't curious about meeting Holmes, though. A man who claimed he could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb? He'd be mad _not _to be curious.

It sounded as if the detective's manners left something to be desired. Holmes' own comments on his website were at times politely reserved:

_Think nothing of it, Major Redwood - _

but more often rudely blunt, which John thought odd in a man as highly educated and snobbishly intelligent as Holmes.

_No, really, it was nothing, Lady Bracknell. I solved your petty little case in ten seconds flat without leaving the comfort of my armchair. Don't bother contacting me again._

_You think you can bribe me to take your case by offering me money, Mister Armitage? Boring._

_Theodore Barton. Normanby. 12:10. Case solved, thank you, goodbye and good riddance._

And then, fairly recently, there had been a comment from Greg.

_G Lestrade: I've tried your mobile, your email, and I've been round to your flat. There's been another one._

Holmes' reply had been succinct. John had fought not to grind his teeth at the man's high-handedness.

_SH: Busy._

Another comment-and-reply from yesterday had filled in the context a little, and had put John's back up even more.

_SH: Wrong! Wrong! Wrong! Wrong!_

_G Lestrade: THEN HELP US! PEOPLE ARE DYING, SHERLOCK!_

No big deal to the detective, clearly. Only people _dying. _John, medic to the bone, had chafed at Holmes' casual brushing-off of the situation. Greg must be desperate, asking for his help with a case, and Holmes was refusing. Why? Because it was too simple? Because it was only Greg asking and not an Indian Prince? Because the stakes weren't high enough?

John had dealt with intellectual snobbery before. He'd dealt with blunt rudeness. He'd dealt with apathy in the face of life-and-death situations. He could handle any sort of observation or insult Holmes saw fit to deal out, whether inductive, deductive, or otherwise.

He came to the landing at the top of the flight of stairs and paused, glancing sideways at Greg.

Greg nodded to the ajar door in front of them.

John set his jaw, squared his shoulders, and stepped forward to meet Sherlock Holmes.


End file.
